


A Kiss For Luck and We're On Our Way

by torakowalski



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Canon Era, Discussion of Potential Pregnancy, F/M, First Time, Rule 63, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4448834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re naked as soon as the last person has left the Cafe Musain.  Grantaire doesn’t know how it happened, but she’s pressed against a wall and Enjolras is pressed against her, and perhaps this is a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss For Luck and We're On Our Way

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to a meme prompt somewhere at some time from someone, but the whats and the whos have been lost to the mists of time, so now it's just contextless canon era porn! \o?
> 
> With thanks to Moog for reading it and telling me to post it. :)

They’re naked as soon as the last person has left the Cafe Musain. Grantaire doesn’t know how it happened - she’s sure there was no discussion - but she’s pressed against a wall and Enjolras is pressed against her, and perhaps this is a dream.

The gentleman’s britches and the long white shirt that she habitually wears to scowls and disapproving glances in the street are strewn across the floor, an erotic tangle with Enjolras’s fine clothes, his red coat sitting proudly atop them all.

His mouth is on hers, her mouth is on his, and if there were breath to make sound, she would be groaning. As it is, she scratches ragged broken fingernails down his back, and bites his tongue. Her breasts are in his hands, lost under his large palms. He explores the shape of them, particularly fascinated by her her nipples, which he squeezes and pinches until they throb and she moans in pleasure. 

He is so much taller than her and the solid length of his cock presses into her stomach with each breath and each shift of their bodies. She wants him closer, somewhere else entirely, and presses up onto the tips of her bare toes. It does bring him closer, tucked into the line where her thigh meets her groin, but it’s still not where she needs him to be and she swears, frustrated.

“God, R,” Enjolras says, and he doesn’t call her that, he has always made a point of never calling her that. When she infuriates him the most, he calls her ‘Mademoiselle’ and god help her but she’s started to like it.

“Please, please, please,” she says, her lips against his jaw. She wishes that she wore paint on her mouth, that she could leave marks. Maybe she will start. “Why am I naked if not to take me?”

Enjolras pulls back, just his head and the top half of his body separating from her, but it’s still too much space and she follows him, plastering her bare, sweaty skin, against his perfect marble.

“The risk is too great,” he says, sounding as though it pains him. 

Grantaire laughs, can’t help herself. “We’ll be dead in a matter of days, Enjolras,” she says. “Even if there were a baby, we would never know.”

It’s the first time that he hasn’t argued with her, hasn’t told her that they will all survive this madness and come out singing on the other side.

“It is what you want?” he asks her, blue eyes hot and searching.

“I swear,” she says, “it is all I want.”

He gathers her up and kisses her again. His hands are careful, gentle, on her skin, but his mouth is not and it is his mouth that she likes best. “Come on, then,” he says and slides down to his knees, right there.

“What are you doing?” she asks, delighted. She never thought to see him on his knees, and certainly not for her.

He holds up a hand, which she takes, and he uses it to pull her down. She straddles his lap, his solid thighs forcing her legs apart. Her legs are ugly, she knows that, as muscular as his and not at all suited to a woman, let alone a lady.

(Not that she is a lady. She hasn’t been a lady since she left home; her parents made sure she knew that.)

His cock is hard and red, curved up towards his stomach. She’s seen one before, held one in her hand or in her mouth, but this is different, this is Enjolras, and she curls careful, reverent fingers around him.

Enjolras’s lips fall open, his eyes fall shut. “If you are sure,” Enjolras says, as though she could ever deny him, even if she wanted to, when he looks like that.

Grantaire doesn’t answer. She lifts up onto her knees and guides his cock between her legs. She hasn’t done this particular act before, but she wants to do it now.

She sinks down, feeling her body stutter in shock at the first intrusion, and then struggle to give way. He is wide and long and it aches, sparks of something close to panic rolling all along her body, until she is fully seated on his lap, and the first moment is over.

She’s shaking. She wishes that she weren’t, that she could be seductive and confident in this, but she feels suddenly overwhelmed.

“If it is too much,” Enjolras says, sounding as though he’s speaking through clenched teeth.

“It’s perfect,” she promises. She presses her forehead to his shoulder and breathes and breathes. Her body is relaxing, muscles giving way, and she can feel him in her now, pressing against places that have never been touched before. “What happens now?”

“Now you move,” Enjolras says. It comes out commanding and he immediately softens it with, “If you wish.”

Grantaire smiles. Enjolras being conciliatory. Who knew that could happen? She experiments with rocking up, but the angle’s wrong for that, so she moves backwards instead. An inch of his cock slides out of her, before she rolls forward again. “More?” she asks.

Enjolras nods. His jaw is clamped, his eyes squeezed closed. He’s so beautiful that she has to kiss him, first his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

“Why don’t you fuck me?” she asks, just to see if he will react.

The sensibilities that he was brought up with tell him that a woman shouldn’t swear but in the world that he is striving for, a woman may do as she wishes. It is often hilarious to see the conflict on his face, and she exploits is as much as she is able.

But, “I thought I was,” is all Enjolras says. His hands have been resting on her back, now they slide around to her narrow hips, squeezing.

Grantaire fits her lips to his. “Push me down on my back and take me, Apollo,” she breathes into his mouth.

“Good god,” Enjolras groans. He doesn’t exactly push her; he guides her, his hands supporting her, slow and careful, and trying so hard to stay within her as they rearrange themselves.

He does slip free, and they both make noises at the loss, but then she is flat on her back, and he pushes her legs up toward her chest, guides them apart.

She knows that she isn’t much to look at - lacking Musichetta’s ample breasts or Marius’s Secret Love’s golden shine - but Enjolras’s eyes roam over her as though she is more than enough.

The angle is better this time, when he takes his cock in hand and guides it into her. She feels him go deeper, hit something that sends sparks through her, and she wraps her legs around him instinctively, gasping.

He presses his face into her shoulder, thrusting his hips in and out, while she stares up at the ceiling, wide-eyed and stunned. She can’t feel the full length of him, but the slide of his cock against her opening has gone from sore to stunning, and her body seems to know what to do, tightening around him.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras pants, “is this good? Do you like it?”

Does she like it? Like is such a tiny, pointless word. She’s overwhelmed and her back is a little cold on the hard wooden floor, her thighs are cramping but the place between her legs is hot and throbbing. 

“I would like to do this forever,” she settles on, because it’s true.

Enjolras laughs wildly. “I can’t,” he says, “I really can’t.” She doesn’t quite know what he means until he stills suddenly, his voice breaking on a groan, and his cock jerks within her.

“Oh,” she says, startled. She knew this was the point, this is what they were striving for, but she made him spend, and the realisation of that makes her feel infinite. She presses her hands between his shoulderblades, stroking him as he shakes. “Are you all right?” Then, as the thought occurs to her, “Had you done that before?”

“No,” Enjolras says, honest as ever. 

“Me neither,” she says, and then they’re both laughing, shaking and hysterical and so incredibly naked together.

He’s still inside her, though she can feel him shrinking down, and eventually he slips free. It’s an odd feeling, one she doesn’t like, as is lying here, her body still thrumming, while he naps against her chest.

“Enjolras,” she says, poking him in the shoulder. “I’m cold.”

He lifts his head, blond curls tussled and hanging loose around his face. Grantaire raises a hand and tugs on one, just because this may be her only chance to do so. He glares at her, but it’s soft and warm; she should have been fucking him all along, if this is the result.

“I’d like to make you feel what I just felt,” Enjolras says, studiously awkward and endearing. 

“I’m not sure I have the appropriate anatomy,” she says, grinning when his glare darkens. 

“May I touch you or not?” he asks, impatiently, starting to sit up.

Grantaire uncurls her legs from his waist but leaves them spread, feet flat on the floor. “Please,” she says, like she’s her mother, inviting him in for tea. Actually, no, she doesn’t want to think of that, right now.

He smiles, as though she’s given him a gift, and kisses her. The kiss is slower than before; she’s as frantic as she ever was, but he’s not, so she tries to slow it down, to enjoy the moment. He moves on before she truly can, trailing kisses down her throat, up the curve of one breast before sucking her nipple into his mouth.

She swears, both hands going to his head, and tangling in his hair. “This is a much better use for your mouth,” she tells him.

Enjolras lifts his head, looking down at her. “Than what?” he asks, as though he already suspects the answer.

“Talking, of course,” she says, and laughs at his expression. “Your cause would have a million followers, if this were how you chose to persuade them.”

“Have I persuaded you?” he asks. 

“To some things,” she says, and sighs when he lowers his head again, her other breast getting the same treatment. It’s her stomach next, the muscle that overlays her softness and the solid jut of her hip bones. 

He kisses the inside of her thigh, licking something from her skin that is either her own wetness or his, then uses his thumbs to hold her folds apart. This, Grantaire has had before - there have been evenings with Jehan, with Courfeyrac, one time with Musichetta - but never with the sort of attention and fervour that Enjolras gives her now.

His tongue is talented, moving in patterns that she cannot predict, that leave her panting and straining, her hands clutched around her own breasts, distracting herself from pleasure with pleasure. 

Two of his fingers slide inside her, before his tongue joins them. She scrunches her eyes shut, imagining that he’s licking his own semen out of her. Her breath is coming fast, sweat beading her skin and rolling down her back. She curls her toes, looking for something to grip and finding only hardwood, nothing to ground her.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire begs, “Please. I need. I can’t quite.”

“Shh,” Enjolras hums, vibrating right through her body, and presses his thumb to her clitoris. A hot rush of need races through her, tightening her grip around his fingers, arching her body up from the floor. His mouth, his fingers, and now his other hand are all working to drive Grantaire on and on and on until she can’t hold back anymore.

A wall breaks inside her and her body lets go in one harsh release, punching a cry from her chest and releasing shuddering, pulsing pleasure that hits again and again.

“Christ, Enjolras,” she gasps when it’s over, or at least faded, cautiously uncurling her limbs until she’s a wrung-out dishrag on the floor. 

He takes her hand and pulls her upright, even though she complains the whole way. He’s sitting up now, and pulls her into the space between his legs, his arms around her, and oh, perhaps the movement was worth it.

Grantaire leans against Enjolras’s chest and doesn’t question why this is something that he wants. His chest is smooth for the most part, just a smattering of blond hair in the centre, and it feels good to lean her head against. 

“If there’s a baby - ” Enjolras starts.

“There won’t be a baby,” Grantaire interrupts. She knows what she’s done to herself, she’s ruined her body with drink and with drugs; no god would put a child within this shell. 

“If there’s a baby,” Enjolras presses on, always stubborn. “I want you to make sure you survive the revolution.”

Grantaire tips her head up to look at him. “You would condemn me to the life of an unwed mother?” she asks. “That’s cruel, even for you.” It sounds like the start one of those endless tomes that Jehan loves to read; Grantaire does not fancy herself in the role of fallen woman.

“I would marry you,” Enjolras says, with such certainty that it stops her breath.

“But only then,” Grantaire finally manages, mostly to herself. She pulls herself away from the warmth of his arms. “Don’t worry your pretty head; as I said, there will be no baby.”

Enjolras follows her across the room, as she searches through the pile for her clothing. “What have I said wrong?” he asks. He catches her hand, when she would bend to retrieve her shirt. “You would prefer to be abandoned?”

“I would prefer to be loved,” Grantaire says, and wrenches her hand away. She picks up her shirt and pulls it over her head. The top two buttons are missing from too vigorous handling - _Enjolras’s_ too vigorous handling - but she has a scarf, which she can use to cover the difference.

“I thought that was implied,” Enjolras says, softly.

Grantaire stops, turning slowly and staring at him. “When?” she asks, voice so quiet she’s impressed he hears her.

“When I bedded you,” Enjolras says. “When I proposed.”

Grantaire throws her hands into the air. “That wasn’t a proposal. That was a hypothetical shotgun wedding. That’s not at all the same - ”

He catches her hand again and pulls her close. He’s still naked, but she feels the more stripped bare. “When this is over,” he says. “When France is free, we will marry, if you wish it.”

“If _I_ wish it,” Grantaire echoes. She laughs, pushes at his chest, but not to get away. “You ridiculous man. We won’t survive this, but of course I wish it.”

“Well, then,” Enjolras says, and beams at her, as though it’s settled.

Perhaps it is. Perhaps they have weddings in the afterlife; perhaps there’s something to look forward to, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come and visit me on [tumblr!](torakowalski.tumblr.com)


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